


The Rose Bridge Saloon

by Kiya Byrne (werekat)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Chocolate, Earth, Klingon, M/M, Saloon, Time Travel, Vulcan, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:29:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werekat/pseuds/Kiya%20Byrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a Klingon attack, the crew find themselves orbiting Earth... an Earth before the advent of space exploration.  Beaming down to have a closer look, the intrepid trio find themselves in a pre-Gold Rush Colorado.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rose Bridge Saloon

Spock found himself pondering his Captain’s actions, not for the first time in the last few hours. It had been a routine supply-exchange mission to Vega-9X-5, a relatively small satellite colony that had been established a few years before, orbiting a planet rich in mineral deposits that had nearly sparked conflict several times during its existence. Everything had been going well until the ship’s radar had picked up a strange vessel, cloaked though it was—the shields had probably been damaged not long before, they’d thought.

That was before the _Enterprise_ jolted violently, struck by enemy torpedoes—before they’d realized the _damaged_ vessel had been a Klingon battleship lying in wait to… relieve the crew of the newly-obtained precious materials. It was down to the steady work in Engineering that the warp core managed to not fry after it had been engaged with almost no warning, though it was a near thing.

Slowing, it was evident from the scans that they were the only ship in immediate space. That was good. The scans also showed that they were several hundred light-years from their original location and had passed through a wormhole. That was not so good.

Reading and tabulating the data, it was obvious from the distorted readouts scrolling across the screen of Spock’s station that the ship’s mainframe had taken a significant hit—as if the massive mid-space turbulence wasn’t any indication. After being around his captain for as long as he had, Spock was starting to pick up more… human manerisms, even if only in his own head, he thought with a mental sigh.

It took perhaps longer than it would have ordinarily, but the first officer had to verify the data he interpreting. While they may have encountered alternate dimensions and time shifts before, it was still not every day that he had to tell his Captain that they were now swiftly approaching a perhaps alternate version of Earth, likely from a time prior to space travel, if the lack of space debris orbiting the planet was any indication. Going by the atmospheric analysis the ship’s monitor was able to compile, they had arrived at a planet largely unindustrialized, based on the known data when compared to recorded findings from research conducted on, _their_ Earth.

Realistically, Spock should have stopped being surprised by his Captain’s actions long ago. It was illogical, when routinely confronted with the man’s often abstract and seemingly unplanned feats of brilliance. Still, the Vulcan couldn’t help but wonder if he’d just decided to beam down with the landing party on the possibility that they’d encounter saloon girls.

By some stroke of strangeness, Uhura had found a stash of costumes in one of the ship’s cargo holds—likely a forgotten package left behind when one of the newly transferred crew-members had met an untimely end. There were only four in the crate though and one was an odd day-glow pink monstrosity, so as much as some of the others had wanted to go, it was to be a three-man mission. A simple data-gathering exercise. That was before Mr. Scott had engaged the teleporter and they found themselves planet-side in what, according to his tricorder’s longitudinal calculations, was somewhere in, what on their Earth would be the Colorado Rocky Mountains.

Luckily each of the disguises had been fully equipped with hats and holsters or they might have gotten a sight more suspicious looks than they did. As it was, the three Starfleet crewmen found themselves deposited not far from a dirt track of a road leading, presumably, to somewhere at least vaguely populated. It was the Captain’s gut that led them to the close mining town—rather the Rose Bridge Saloon, that happened to be in the town. Priorities, Spock thought, unimpressed. They were on a fact-finding mission, after all, he thought.

“Captain, I do not think that—“

“Lighten up, Spock,” he’d said, throwing open the swing-doors. “It’s for science!” _Well. That just solves everything, doesn’t it?_

Doctor McCoy shortly followed, clapping a hand on the Vulcan’s shoulder, saying “Ya need ta live a little, ya hobgoblin!” before heading to the bar for a gin.

He just hoped that this particular 1848-era town, as they’d learned from a particularly informative and boisterous toast not long after entering the establishment, would not bring cause to use their phasers. They might be able to conceal them in holsters, for now, but any cover would be blown if they actually needed to use them.

Sitting at one of the tables with his Captain and the Chief Medical Officer, Spock observed and analyzed their surroundings, taking in the drunken ramblings of gold in the hills outside of town and skilled ladies in residence. Neither was of much personal interest, but being that they were part of an exploratory expedition, it would have been illogical to do otherwise.

Somewhat skeptical, Spock reached toward the glass Dr. McCoy had placed before him—a glass the Vulcan could tell was being watched avidly by both his crewmembers for some inexplicable reason. He might not have consumed alcoholic beverages often, but that did not mean he was incapable of such. Consequently, his palate was not adept enough to discern the varying tones and highlights of the brew or the faint, chocolate undertones, residual from the saloon re-using empty cacao barrels for the fermentation process.

Such it was that though his compatriots had had several and he only one, Spock found himself having less… control over his emotions than usual. It was somehow more difficult than usual to reign in his desire to smack his Captain upside the head for attempting to use shoddy pick-up lines on the barman’s daughter. He didn’t know why she was there in the first place, but then the walls were starting to get a bit wavy and he’d stopped caring.

Around that time, the good Captain and Doctor were rather into their cups, taking in everything and just enjoying themselves. That was, at least, until the sobering sound of Spock… _giggling_ broke through the alcohol-induced haze.

“Jiiiim… hehe… Jimmm!” he called, voice carrying, though seated only a short distance from the other two.

“What, Spock?” he asked, cautiously. For all that they’d been fighting Klingons not long before, he was rather a bit more terrified of whatever had exacted the change in his First Officer that he was currently seeing.

“There’s colors, Jim. Colors everywhere,” he said, eyes wide with wonder.

Nudging the third man at their table, Jim spoke quietly, sure from long practice that he would be heard, “What the hell did you give him, Bones? He’s high as flipping kite.”

“It’s just the local brew, Jim. They make it here. If it’s so much an issue, go ask. I for one find it rather entertaining.”

“Jim, there’s music! I like music.” he said, swaying slightly.

“Bones, you know how mortified he’d be if he saw himself like this. He seems to have fixated on me, so it has to be you.”

“Fine. I don’t like it, but fine. What am I supposed to say though? _Oh, pardon me, but have you put any strange substances in the booze you served my friend there?_ Somehow, I don’t think that’ll work, Jim,” He said quietly.

“Just say that he seems to be experiencing some allergic reaction to something, I don’t know. You’re the doctor. Make something up.”

Jim lost track of his friend for a time as he watched Spock’s head bop along to the player piano in the corner, taking in the expressions flitting across the other man’s face. It was startling how different a simple change in expression could make someone appear.

The usually reserved, contained man was long gone, a lively, enthusiastic youth in his place. And Spock did appear rather younger than his twenty-three years. Even knowing the embarrassment that would likely descend once he regained his faculties from whatever had taken hold of him, it was good to see the Vulcan just… let go for once. It was even better to see him let go without having a fist flying at his face, Jim thought with slight amusement.

Startled out of his reverie when the third part of their little contingent returned, the Captain turned to the older man and… found a key tossed in his face, catching it a moment before potential impact. Looking up at his friend in confusion, Jim was likewise marveling at the fact they’d been given an actual key for use in a physical lock, rather than the cards and readers he’d been used to for so long.

Sitting back down with his gin, McCoy spoke, “It was a good plan, Jim, I’ll say that much. They took me back to the brewing room.” Rubbing his un-occupied hand over his face, the doctor continued with a sigh, “They’re using cacao-transport barrels to brew the stuff, Jim.”

“Well, shit.”

“Exactly. Apparently they were left over from a shipment that came in a few months back for the mayor’s wedding. The things just got emptied about a month ago and they didn’t bother to so much as rinse them.”

“Can’t you, I don’t know—give him something to sober him up or whatever?”

“Jim, it’s chocolate. He’s drunk. It’s not gonna kill him, he just needs to sleep it off.”

“Hence the key.”

“Hence the key,” McCoy said, voice quiet and shot through with rare emotion. “I figured he’d be in more of a mood if we took him back up and someone saw him like this,” he said, nodding to the man now staring at his drink with intense fascination, “than he would if we just stayed planet-side and let it work through his system. Besides, I’m the one who gave him the thing. He’d do the same for either of us.”

“You think?”

“I know. Or have you forgotten that time you got plastered at the Vorathian feast in Delta-5?” the doctor asked with a smirk.

“He was looking out for the best interest of the crew. Seeing their Captain in such a state would have been unbecoming.”

“That might have been his cover story, but it’s not the only reason and you know it, Jim.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t really all there when he found me to help haul you into the cave after you’d gotten stung by that weird bee… thing in Atar’s swamp, either. If you hadn’t analyzed the damn things the day before, you might have died.”

“I thought it was you who dragged me back…” the doctor said, confused frown marring his face.

“Yeah, well. He said it would have been illogical to have let you suffer out there, especially when we might need you later,” Jim said, standing, key grasped firmly in his hand. “We should probably get him upstairs though.”

“He is looking a bit… green, isn’t he—more than usual, I mean?”

“Just grab one of his arms, Bones.”

Mulling over the new information, Leonard McCoy found himself oddly… warmed by the idea that the stoic man now almost hanging between the two of them had cared about his well-being, even under the guise of logical efficiency.

That of course didn’t help their current predicament of half-dragging their somewhat delirious First Officer up a set of narrow, questionably secured stairs to one of the _guest rooms_. The look he’d gotten when he’d requested a single room for the three of them for the night was not an expression he’d had directed at his person in… quite some time. Not since his wife had left, actually. It’s not like he’d cheated on her or even thought about it—he just said he was bisexual. Honestly, he thought she’d already known.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts as he almost missed a step, the Chief Medical Officer continued upward until they reached the upper landing, leading the other two down a short hallway to the room he’d been directed to when he was given the key, Jim unlocking the door as he still held the formed iron in his free hand.

Now that the shock of seeing his pointy-eared friend not exactly himself was starting to wear off… barely… the alcohol and exhaustion from the last few missions started making itself known. Intending to sit down on the bed to remove his shoes before finding a comfortable bit of floor, the older man was a bit startled to find a restrictive arm wrapped around his waist. Looking over the still bowed head between them, Leonard noted with a bit of amusement that Jim seemed to be having the same difficulty.

Walking forward till they reached the bed after securing the door, it was as if an invisible puppet master cut their strings all at once, three landing in a haphazard sprawl, on the plush surface, still fully-clothed.

****

“Uugh...”

Spock’s head was pounding and he felt at once strangely comfortable and confined in his current position. The place he found himself smelled oddly of what could only be described as women’s perfume and alcoholic bever—wait. He remembered that they had been attacked and ended up orbiting an earlier version of Earth. He also remembered that Dr. McCoy had given him something to drink.   He could not, however seem to recall much past that, though he remembered apparently being fascinated with the light refraction properties of the liquid inside his glass.

“Ow, my head… Bones, do you have any of that hangover stuff?” came a familiar whine.

That was his Captain’s voice. His Captain’s voice, coming from what he now recognized as a humanoid, male body, comfortably pressed against his side. Nearly naked.

As he tensed, it became rather evident that all… three, was it? Of the beings currently in the bed, himself included were currently sans-clothes. He had been unconscious enough to not be aware that someone, no matter how familiar, was removing his clothes.

“We managed to get you under the blankets after a while—thought you’d be more comfortable to not sleep in the clothes we’d have to be wearing back up to the ship today,” McCoy’s voice came from his other side, confirming his suspicion as to the other’s identity. “And no, I don’t. There’s a pitcher of water over on the basin by the door though, I think.”

“Some help you are.”

“Damn it, Jim I’m a doctor, not a clairvoyant. How was I supposed to know we’d need the damn things?”

Clearing his throat to try and rebuild his stoic façade, Spock asked the question that had been bothering him since he had regained consciousness.

“What… _exactly_ transpired last night?”

“Ugh…”

“Just get the water, Jim,” Spock heard Dr. McCoy say from his position in the bed beside him before the other side dipped as the Captain shifted.

“Spock, you were… kind of drugged, I guess.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Ow!”

“I apologize, Jim.”

“ ‘S ok,” he said, pouring the water into the allotted glass.

“It was unintentional, but yeah. They’re using old chocolate barrels to make beer.”

Letting that process, Spock became rather… distractingly aware of his friend’s body still pressed tightly against his own in the bed that really should not have been able to hold three adult males. He was aware of human physiology enough to know that certain… things tended to happen with the male body around the time of waking. That did not, however, translate to adequate social knowledge of how to deal with the situation when an individual awoke in a bed he’d shared with his very male friends the night before to feel an erection pressed into his hip. Spock might not have been the most adept at reading the doctor, but he was fairly sure the man had yet to acknowledge that little… or not so little, the half-Vulcan amended, situation. Of course, the discreet shift of hips away from his body hinted otherwise, but he was not certain.

“We should… get back to the ship,” he said, clearing his throat after a moment.

“Always business with you, eh, Spock? You’re probably right though. Just… Spock, remember that we’re in the mid-1800s right now, yeah? We’ll likely get a rather mixed reception at best when we leave the room.”

“What do you mean?”

“Three men, checking in to a one-bed room for the night. Think about it.”

“But that would be highly illogical, would it not, especially after having imbibed the quantity of alcohol that would necessitate a stay on the planet?”

“Unlike most other times, Spock, this was for your benefit,” Jim said from beside the bed, having dressed some time during the conversation. “It was about the time you started giggling that we realized something was wrong and Bones went to check with the barkeep.”

Embarrassment tinting his cheeks green, Spock took a moment to center himself at the news of his apparently prolonged lack of composure. He’d known, intellectually, the effect it would have, but he’d not been subjected to its practical effects for quite some time, the crew knowing to keep chocolate well away from him.

“I agree. It would have been… illogical to return to the ship in such a state. Thank you.”

“Ah, it’s alright. Everyone gets sloshed once in a while,” McCoy said, pulling his pants back on.

“I do not. I can not. I must—“

“Spock, I don’t care if you’re Vulcan, half-Vulcan, or human, bottling up everything all the time is _not_ healthy for you. No, you pointy-eared alien! As your doctor, I’m sayin’ it’s not healthy for you. As your friend, I’m sayin’ I’m concerned you’ll combust or something if you don’t let it out once in a while. It was nice to see you just… relax last night. I know you don’t wanna hear it, but that’s my take on the whole thing.”

“I have to agree with Bones, Spock.”

“Captain, I just… I can’t lose my composure like _that_ again.”

“Which is why letting it out in small doses, rather than letting it build and compress everything else seems, well… it seems logical, doesn’t it?”

It was then that Spock realized he was still in the bed, tucked under plush blankets, wearing nothing but his underpants, and being watched intently by two fully-dressed Starfleet officers. Embarrassment returning, he asked as politely as he could if one of the other men would mind terribly handing him his clothes—it seemed to brake them both out of whatever stupor they’d fallen in as he was handed the garments as both exited the room. An uncharacteristic sigh leaving his lips, Spock swung his legs over the side of the bed to dress, feeling the dull ache in his head return as he stood upright.

Meeting the others on the other side of the door, the three men continued to the ground floor, handing the key over, only to be met with a series of calculating looks. After a silent conversation, the three left the saloon, a few disappointed ladies sighing at their departure. It had been rather obvious that the men had felt something for each other the previous night, but they’d have liked to have had the opportunity to watch, at least.

Walking through the town, now bustling with activity, it was obvious that the area was in the beginning stages of the legendary gold rush—when miners were still able to find relatively-easily accessible strains. Turning toward his companions, Spock asked the question that had been bothering him since it was mentioned earlier that morning.

“Leonard, when you said that you got me under the blankets after a while, what, exactly did you mean?”

“Hmm?”

“He meant that we were a bit… restrained, you might say.”

A snort of laughter erupted from the good doctor at that.

“What our esteemed Captain is trying so tactfully to say, is that you managed to latch onto us enough that we all kind of… fell onto the bed and couldn’t move until you loosened your grip a bit.”

“I apologize,” he said after a pause, ears tinted a deep olive green as his face closed off behind his usual emotionless mask. He’d never been adept at hiding the feelings swirling in the depths of his eyes though.   The embarrassment and mortification were there, yes, as were other emotions—deeper emotions, as yet unknown.

“We should be at a safe distance to call the ship shortly,” he finally, voice stiff and controlled as he swiftly walked onward.

“Spock, wait! It’s not… it wasn’t…”

“Jim, let him go. He’s not… Even if he _was_ interested, he’s apparently not ready.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier to see him closing off like that though.”

“No. No, it doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean we have the right to push him.”

“I know that, but…”

Pulling his Captain and friend close, the doctor pressed a gentle kiss to his furrowed brow.

“He’ll come around, Jim. Just give him time.”

“What if he doesn’t?” came a small voice.

“Then you’ve got me, and I’ve got you.”

“I can work with that,” the younger man said, aiming a subdued grin at the other man.

Looking back briefly, Spock couldn’t help the twinge he felt in his side at the sight of his Captain in the doctor’s arms. He’d thought, briefly that something might… but no. They were obviously happy together. It was his duty to keep them safe.

Eyes widening as he saw someone approaching the other men, Spock had a split-second to draw his phaser to stun and aim. The new person called out disparaging things to the two, still standing in each other’s arms and wearing unfamiliar clothes. The idiot didn’t even register the light heading for him until it hit, luckily before he could trigger the gun he’d aimed.

“Told you we needed to keep a low profile, Jim.”

“You’re the one who rented the room last night, Bones.”

For all the battles and fire-fights they’d been in, the potential of the two men before him, the two he was swiftly coming to realize he cared for deeply, being seriously injured, was shaking. He remembered something his father had once said: _Vulcans feel emotion, possibly even deeper than humans_ … Unbreakable bonds between individuals… Shaking his head, Spock activated the communicator he’d hid in the breast-pocket of his shirt.

“Ah, good. We were startin’ to get a mite worried up here—“

“Yes, Mr. Scott. How are repairs coming along?”

“Ow! Uhura, you know you were too.”

“He doesn’t need to know that!” came a muffled shout from the other side of the comm.

“Things are almost back like they’re supposed to be, warp core working and all that.”

“Why are you not in Engineering then?”

“They kicked me out of me own lab, Spock. Said I was makin’ ‘em nuts or some such rot,” came the tinny voice. After a moment, he continued, “Say, Spock, any chance one ‘o you lot remembered me whiskey?”

“I… am unsure. Dr. McCoy,” he said, turning to the approaching duo, “Mr. Scott wants to know if you remembered his alcohol.”

“Yes, I did. No, I didn’t get it. And if he even _thinks_ about leaving us planet-side because of it, it’ll count as mutiny. Seeing as we’ve the Captain and all,” he said, smirk firmly on his face.

“Southern gentleman, my arse,” was the grumbled reply.

“Beam us up, Scotty,” the Captain interjected, amusement audible in his voice.

As the teleportation beams activated and dissipated, the landscape reverted to its previously undisturbed state, leaving only a few startled rabbits and a rather confused man slowly regaining consciousness in their wake.

****

Back on the Enterprise, things seemed to be returning to normal easily enough, though there was… tension, it seemed between the three newly-returned crewmembers. None were foolhardy enough to approach any of them directly, but enough rumors circulated and the crew avoided them enough that it was evident rather fast.

It was another two weeks before the Captain and the good doctor managed to corner the ever-studious Science Officer in his quarters, under the guise of making sure he was experiencing no lasting effects from his cacao exposure.

It started with a hand on a shoulder, gentle kiss pressed to the top of the Vulcan’s head in comfort—it seemed that was all the trigger Spock needed though, as soon the three landed in a tangle of sweaty limbs on his narrow bed, gentle moans and hitched breaths flowing freely. The restraint so rigidly controlled for so long had finally snapped.

The crew made no comment of sounds emanating from the First Officer’s quarters the following days, though there were a fair few who flushed at the sight of him for days after that first occurrence. They were just glad that the palpable tension was gone, leaving the ship a much calmer place. It didn’t hurt that their Captain was much happier than any had ever seen him—even more so after he managed to convince his the stoic man to move into the larger, sound-proofed quarters he already shared with the Chief Medical Officer.

It was even rumored that some of the more… intrepid crewmembers were trying to figure out how to send the Klingons a fruit basket as thanks for helping everyone’s favorite trio figure themselves out, however indirectly. That was just a rumor, mind. Despite what the computer logs stated, no one on the ship would be that mental, surely. There was, however an ensign missing from his post in engineering again...

**Author's Note:**

> In my head!cannon, Spock's sarcasm is his defense against Jim's seeming flights of occasional idiocy. It's also partly because he's around Bones as much as he is, but that's neither here nor there, really. This is my entry for Saruchante's Steampunk!Spock challenge/competition, over on Y!Gallery. The boys hijacked the story and decided they wanted to change the plot a bit from the original. I'm not complaining, as I like the finished piece rather a lot, but still. Some warning would have been nice. >>;
> 
> Also, drunk!Spock is drunk... This is the only time I plan on writing him *exactly* like this. Forewarning and all that.
> 
> Disclaimer: The guys are not mine... or the the triad (and/or any pairing from it) would be cannon. I own the Rose Bridge and the town it's in. That's it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. ^^


End file.
